Rabid monkeys with fancy tools

I’ll confirm it right here right now, babe. I’m infatuated again. Officially infatuated with someone. Same old symptoms : finding it hard to breathe, tummy turning in knots and knots and more fucking knots, impromptu smiles and increasingly conversing with myself. Toni Braxton and Babyface really not helping, singin’ those goddamned ballads oh they so sweet and rosy and so goddamned happy. Oh so infatuated. Can’t believe it. Refer to last post - I was SO bitching about men. They’re like drugs. You swear you’d come clean, but it’s so tempting to have that one last hit, one last drag. And you end up in rehab. Men rehab clinics. There ought to be one for both sexes.
Taking things easy. Taking things a step at a time. Baby steps. Microscopic steps. Being nonchalant. Can’t rush it. Won’t rush it dying dying dying every passing second makes me die a little bit more out of longing.

They seriously bewilder me. Imagine that. I haven’t even started really living yet, and they already bewilder me. Hideous creatures. Idiots. Imbeciles. Cotton for brains. ‘Yeah I know what I want.’ Bullshit. You don’t know your index finger from your toe. MEN. ARGH. Can’t they remain 16, ruddy-cheeked and dreamy slaves puppies, just like Daniel Radcliffe?

Title is the next movie that Ang Lee will be directing, starring Tony Leung Chiu Wai and Wang Lee Hom (I think). Love the title. Have a feeling that when the movie comes out, I’ll love it too. I mean, with a title like Lust, caution, you can’t possible go wrong. Just like Snakes on a Plane. Gots to watch that one.
It’s 5.17am. I can’t sleep. *insert swear words*
Goddamned assignments. Two words, buddy : Fuck them. That’s right, Jeremy. The Julester is back. Made my hair rise, though, the term ‘Julester.’ Eew.
Goddamned embarrasingly huge pimple on my cheek. Begone, pimple! Of all times to appear. You know, when my sort-of-love-life was unimportant, no pimples, I tell ya. Now.. at the most crucial point, the integral point, the most thought-provoking, edge-of-new-discoveries, whole-new-ballfield .. you get the idea. This mother of a pimple, red as tomatoes (*cough choke cough*), painful as hell, encrusted with a thin layer of pus - appears smack right next to my nose like an over-zealous piece of spinach wedged in between your front teeth.
Cibai Mat Rempits racing along the main road. Will they just fucking crash and burn? Man .. one of my greatest desires would be to steamroll them with a great big Samuel L. Jackson-ish motherfuckin’ steamroller. Manical cackle as I hear their bones mangle.
‘So Happy Together’ playing non-stop in my head. Ugh. stopitstopitstopitstopitstopit

And .. last but not least (cliched, I know) .. bluest goddamned eyes in the world. He’s got the bluest goddamned eyes … muhhhh …

.. that men DO love women with long black hair.
.. that every man after him seems like a rebound. Excuse my English. It’s 1.29am and I’m not thinking straightly. I can’t help it. I AM a cold person, but with him I just melt.
.. fuck class tomorrow. Fuck it to shreds.
.. that somebody ought to erase the word alcohol from my vocabulary, and from Burgess’s as well.
.. that I’m unwilling to give myself away. Yet.
.. that my masterpiece will probably have nuances of him in it. Versions of his arseholicness.
.. that I need someone who won’t try to change me. I found him, but I was so repulsed by him. I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself.
.. that there’ll be others like him. I just gotta wait. And one day I’ll be done with waiting and ship myself off to a nunnery. Ambiguous. Which him? Which one do I want, do I need?
.. I pine, I crave, I lust, I desire …

It’s been seven hours + fifteen days
since u took your love away
I go out every night + sleep all day
since u took your love away
since u been gone I can do whatever I want
I can see whomever I choose
I can eat my dinner in a fancy restaurant
but nothing
I said nothing can take away these blues,
‘cos nothing compares
nothing compares 2 u

it’s been so lonely without u here
like a bird without a song
nothing can stop these lonely tears from falling
tell me baby where did I go wrong
I could put my arms around every boy I see
but they’d only remind me of you
I went to the doctor guess what he told me
guess what he told me
he said girl u better have fun
no matter what u do
but he’s a fool
‘cos nothing compares
nothing compares 2 u

all the flowers that u planted mama
in the back yard
all died when u went away
I know that living with u baby was sometimes hard
but I’m willing to give it another try
‘cos nothing compares
nothing compares 2 u.

Been listening to Sinead O’Connor’s ‘Nothing compares to u,’ and it’s true. There’s always, always somebody in our diverse lives, no matter how hard we try to convince ourselves that we’re over him/her, s/he will always be at the back of our heads. We say that we’re over it, we’ve totally moved on. But .. that’s never the case, is it? A knot that can never be untangled.
And we meet someone new, someone who surpasses the highlights of the previous person. But the new fella, s/he pales in comparison with the one. No matter how hard we try. Deceive yourself all you want. Revel in your newfound happiness. I know that you think back, and miss those times. You say to yourself, they’re just memories. They’re harmless. They’ll be forgotten. Memories are not tactile. Memories memories memories. There you go. Thinking again. Despite the person’s faults. Despite everything. The only memories that stay with us permanently are happy ones. And when you reminisce, those bittersweet memories appear. Nothing compares to them. Nothing.
It’s not a bad thing. It’s not a good thing, either. I don’t know what it is. He’s creeping around in my head. For now, he’s the incomparable one. Have you got one, too? Someone skulking about your head, peering from the folds of your brain. Who is your incomparable one?

Let me predict my future. Three years from now. It’d be the year of the Ox again. I’ll be 24, graduated, old, penniless and probably single (being optimistic) .. If things go as planned, I’ll be in Kay-el, trying to make a living through writing. Preferably creative writing, but a writer’s gotta whore herself sometimes. By jove, I might even end up working for some beauty magazine. Or even become a teacher, god forbid. But let’s stick to idealistic dreams, shall we. A freelance writer. Maybe have a little weekly column. Too ambitious. A bi-weekly column. Publish a short story or two in some obscure short story compilation. Write a script and get it produced.
I don’t know what else. Would I still be able to hang out with the same friends? Highly impossible, isn’t it. This blog, by then, would probably have been abandoned some time back. Friendster would be defunct, just like ICQ. This laptop that I’m typing on would surely have become shit-fodder.
Would I look back and think, man, my 21st was crazy. What the hell was I thinking? Would I remember all those people I loved and lost, would I remember them with the same fervour as I do now? Would I fester and rot in those memories or would they have, as is natural with me, gone with the next train? I’m so full of contradictions, it pains me. It really does.
Three years isn’t very long, but boy is it unimaginable, to an extent. People would have come and gone and come again and gone back to wherever people go. But I’ll still be around. Look me up, you’ll find me. If you still know who I am, that is. You go, ‘Yeah, that crazy girl who laughs too loud and wears flip flops and has incorrigible habits. What’s her name again? What is her goddamned name again?’

You and your museum of lovers
The precious collection you’ve housed in your covers
My simpleness threatened by my own admission

And the bags are much too heavy
In my insecure condition
My pregnant mind is fat full with envy again

But I still love to wash in your old bathwater
Love to think that you couldn’t love another
I can’t help it…you’re my kind of man

Wanted and adored by attractive women
Bountiful selection at your discretion
I know I’m diving into my own destruction

So why do we choose the boys that are naughty?
I don’t fit in so why did you want me?
And I know I can’t tame you…but I just keep trying

‘Cause I love to wash in your old bathwater
Love to think that you couldn’t love another
I’m on your list with all your other women
But I still love to wash in your old bathwater
You make me feel like I couldn’t love another
I can’t help it…you’re my kind of man

Why do the good girls always want the bad boys?

So I pacify problems with kisses and cuddles
Diligently doubtful through all kinds of trouble
Then I find myself choking on all my contradictions

‘Cause I still love to wash in your old bathwater
Love to think that you couldn’t love another
Share a toothbrush…you’re my kind of man
I still love to wash in your old bathwater
Make me feel like I couldn’t love another
I can’t help it…you’re my kind of man

No I can’t help myself
I can’t help myself
I still love to wash in your old bathwater

I Love No Doubt, I Love Gwen Stefani and I Love your old bathwater.

I tweaked the lyrics to make it more applicable for us. It’s originally supposed to be:

Your wildness scares me
So does your freedom
You say you can’t stand the restrictions
I find myself trying to change you
If you were meant to be my lover I wouldn’t have to

And I feel so mean, I feel in between
‘Cause I’m about to give you away

I kinda always knew I’d end up your ex-girlfriend (for someone else to take)
I kinda always knew I’d end up your ex-girlfriend (am I making a mistake?)
I hope I hold a special place with the rest of them (all the time that we wasted)
I kinda always knew I’d end up your ex-girl, friend

But now it shall be:

My wildness scares you
So does my freedom
You say you can’t stand the lack of restrictions
You find yourself trying to change me
If I was meant to be your lover you wouldn’t have to

And you feel so mean, you feel in between
‘Cause you’re about to give me away

I kinda always knew I’d end up your ex-girlfriend (for someone else to take)
I kinda always knew I’d end up your ex-girlfriend (am I making a mistake?)
I hope I hold a special place with the rest of them (all the time that we wasted)
You kinda always knew you’d end up my ex-boy, friend.

Just came across this song while walking in Prangin Mall today. Haven’t heard it in a long time. Downloaded it, and realized that the lyrics are so strangely .. applicable .. if tweaked a little .. or not.

How do I compare with her? I’ve got bad hair, bad nails, bad habits, bad language and bad eye bags. She, on the other hand, has got great hair, great nails, great friendliness, polite to a T and her eye bags aren’t as apparent as mine. I say my smile is more unique because it’s crooked. After spending some time looking into a mirror, I realise that my smile tends to be wider on the right side. Her smile is a factory produced smile. Standard. Boy, she reminds me of Steve Tyler because of the wideness of her grin. But I guess most would find it sweet. Demure. Cute, like her.
So really. How do I compare if you stood me next to her. She’s got a better body, she’s probably tons healthier than I am, and she is that cute-sy sort of girl that every sane male wants. I make lame jokes. I’m not cute (nor do I want to be, actually). I’m not the sort of girl that any sane male would want because I’m mean, horrible, don’t mean what I say don’t say what I mean.
Back to the question. How would I compare? Extremely badly. You’d pick her without even giving me a second look. Honest. She’s worth waiting for, fighting for, dying for - all that shebang. If you were a normal, sane male, of course. But even if you weren’t, you’d still find her attractive. More than me, anyhow.
But what does it matter. Nothing. It doesn’t matter how I compare with her. It doesn’t matter if you think that she’s a goddess and I’m the devil incarnate. Or that she’s angelic beauty whilst I am inadequate. Because .. brace yourself for this: I STILL THINK THAT I’M WAY BETTER THAN SHE IS, THAT SHALLOW BIMBO.
So what if normal sane guys choose people like her. I don’t pretty much give a shit what you choose. I don’t care if men like long hair, pink lips, pink nails or what-have-you. I don’t care about what men like. I don’t care about CLEO and Female and Women’s Weekly nor the advice they spew about what men like and what women should do and what men don’t like and what women shouldn’t ask. Fuck that shit. I’ll be who I am and I’ll dress as I want as how I feel is sexy and I’ll mismatch my colours and I’ll wear 5" heels even though I don’t need the leverage and I’ll smudge my eyeliner and go Goth all the time because of Anne Rice and I won’t bother impressing men because CLEO asks us to by being cute-sy, by striking up an interesting conversation and all that jazz. I’m selfish. I don’t give a piss what men want. Not really, anyway. I might a little. If I think he’s worth giving a piss for. Not being literal, of course. Obviously I’d want to be at least a little likable in a sense otherwise I’d be in a nunnery already. But I’ll never, ever become like her. Airhead.
I’m just who I am. I’m a mean person, as you can see. With bad hair, bad nails, hideous eye bags, critical, judgemental and all. I don’t ask you to like that. You don’t, and I don’t blame you for wanting perfection and conventionalism. We’re all humans. I want perfection and conventionalism too. I want a normal, good-looking guy. So maybe I should clean up my act, swear less, be more subdued and matured and all. I’m so tempted to say ‘Fuck that.’ But I really ought to change for the better. I might clean up a little. Swear less. Be a bit quieter. Act my age. But I’ll be doing it entirely for my own sake. Good to be aware of my own faults and try to correct them. If I’m bothered to, that is.
It’s 5.05am and I’m probably not going to sleep for the rest of the night (or morning) because as soon as I close mine eyes I think of those four 10-page assignments due on the 24th of August, that I need to finish Oliver Twist and Malayan Trilogy, that I must stop being so lazy and have a zest to go for class and that I need to stop thinking about (insert his name here) (and yes Mann Chyun, he’s someone near) because it’s pointless and silly and SO not me. Argh. What a long lovely rant this has been. I doubt that you’ve read the whole thing, but if you did, thanks for your time. If you didn’t and you’re just reading the last few lines, bugger off, you lazy sod.

How I loved F4 and F5. I developed my first and only crush on a member of the same sex back in F4. I remember I was in the toilet, and after doing what I needed to do, opened the door and there she was in front of me. Sun shining behind her made her look like Jesus or something. Those crazy years. Shaking my ass in front of class, doing that Cameron Diaz thing in Charlie’s Angels. Sleeping whenever I wanted to sleep. Being loud and capricious. Defying teachers because I felt like a rebel. Still a rebel. Or maybe just an adult now. Day-dreaming, looking out the window. Cat-calling at girls passing by below. Taking off my shoes in class, unzipping the pinafore and unbuttoning my shirt. Wrapping tables with wrapping paper, trying to make a statement. Bullying juniors. Gossiping. Hanging out with ma peeps - some of whom I fell out of favour with, while some just disappeared. Last day of SPM standing on top of the canteen table and screaming. My hair was never dark brown. I had it dyed since F1. And I’ll never forget that argument with Pn. Soong. Oh the satisfaction of making her hot pissing pissed. Time of my bleedin’ teenage life. Great years, man. Care-free years.
Do you remember those days? Do you remember them with fondness?